She loves solitude and irony.
In some days she could usually be seen somewhere, walking alone, her head covered by her hoodie and her hands inside the pouch of it.
On days when dusk just can't stop eating everything on every corner of her room, she'll tuck herself more even and curl up like a perfect cocoon on metamorphosis process. She'll think of every possibility in every idea that her mind would suggest. Nothing of it would hurt her anyway.
She could usually be seen sitting in one of the benches at the beachside at exact 5:00a.m, with two egg sandwich and a cup of hot chocolate drink beside her, and wait for sun rise. She doesn't love sunrise. She doesn't care how yellow and orange and red colors could fill in the sky beautifully. She thinks it's just so ordinary and cliché. 'It's just stupid idea of inspirations in movies and book', she thinks. But sunrise is something that reminds her of new days and life, that she's alive and kicking.
She loves green and blue so you would think she's into trees and grassland—no. Another thing about her being an ironic, she hates the smell of where it has leaves and salty sea. Maybe from afar she'll stare at it and think of how could souls—if it's really true—could wander around on Earth. Or how moon could radiate such perfect reflection on water that whenever it's midnight, when moon exactly appear at the center of her small pool, it kills her curiosity to beauty.
Street is where she never wants because it's too open and people just can't stop walking around. But she's living in a city so she has no choice to make. She'll stay inside her four-wall apartment or go out the dusty streets and bump every zombie-looking people. Choices always pain her. It's a burden and a big headache.
She loves the silence of the library and the smell of books. She's used of sitting alone on a long table, on the mythology section. People are usually oblivious of her existence. She would turn every pages carefully, like her life depends on there. She loves the taste of old book. She sometimes tears a small portion of the book's page and eat it.
She loves to scribble her name on everywhere she thinks it fits. She would make it into beautiful typo graphs and color it like rainbows as she saw in movies. Artsy. But no. She doesn't like her name—irony. She thinks it sounds like nasty and nasty things taste like shit. Awful.
She once used the word love as an anchor of her every ideal. She thought love would help because it's precise although untouched. But once upon a time, it broke her into pieces and the damages taught her lessons. She doesn't want to fall into pieces again. And she forgets the word she once dream. The end.
She's not lonely if you thought she was. She never felt the emotion ever since. She's empty and lost. She's pained. But repairs are not necessary anymore because she's already used to the pangs and ounces of her life's miseries. Broken pieces are beauty. She's broken. She's beautiful.,
In some days she could usually be seen somewhere, but she never wants to be seen. So she would put her hood on her head and walk invisibly—like she doesn't exist. Because that's the only thing that keeps her invincible. Her hoodie.
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